Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies

Sometimes as a parent it is hard to remember to listen first and judge later-- especially when it comes to parenting a two-year-old that equates pinching with signs of affection. Yes, for the past few weeks, she has taken to pinching and slapping those she loves most-- thus making my arms all splotchy and my house a noisy household of tattletale.

"MAWWWM!!!" weeps the ever melodramatic half-cry/half fainting scream of my 7-year-old. "Nikki pinched me." collapse, fall on the floor, cover face and cry like you just lost the Oscar.

Instinctively, I wanted to shake her senseless. I mean get a grip. She's two-years-old and Maggie Moo has been torturing her since she was a baby. The child probably thinks being held down and tickled for a half-hour straight is how you're supposed to say "Good Morning."

I didn't push the injured drama queen for crying so loudly I needed three ibuprofens. No, I talked to Nikki.

"I like her," was all she said and she didn't understand why she should say she was sorry for liking her with a pinch. Yes, my dear readers this is going to take time and a lot of patience-- and bottles of Advil and Martini and Rossi.

So you'd think I'd listen to dear Nikki, knowing she thinks a little differently than the rest of us, but no.

The other day I thought I'd treat the kids to a museum trip, and as we headed from Paradise down the Skyway (I kid you not I live in Paradise and to get there you have to take "Skyway"-- cracks me up every morning).

So we are driving away from Paradise and into the blazing hot dungeons of "the valley" when Nikki rolls down her window. Fighting commences. Headache creeps up (it's what I get for turning my back on Paradise I tell you). And pink flip flop flies out the window.

"MAAAWMMM!!! Nikki THREW her flip-flop out the window!!!!" Maggie yelled.

Now ladies and gentlemen this is THE flip flop. It's the teddy bear of shoes. She even sleeps with it. Plus, it is the ONLY shoe she will wear.

"Oh that's too bad," I said. "Why did you do that?"

sobs. "My fip-fop. My fip-fop," she cried. "Mommy get it. Get fip fop."

"Well why did you throw it out the window?" I asked. "If you really loved it, you wouldn't have thrown it out the window. I'm sorry, but you are going to have to live with this one. You threw it. You lost it."

More crying.

And some more.

And then I came to my senses. She is two-- why would she throw her prized shoe out the window? Does this sound like something Nikki would do? No. She'd throw her sister's prized possessions out the window, but she wouldn't part with even one Barbie shoe of her own even if it was to the poorest child in the universe who had nothing but a broken cup. No this is my greedy girl.

Suddenly I felt a little bad.

"Nikki what happened?" I asked.

"My fip-fop fy away," she cried.

I turned to look at her sister through the rearview mirror.

"Maggie," I said with a slight irritation in my voice. "What happened? Did Nikki take off her shoe and throw it out the window or--- did the window somehow -- I don't know-- roll down-- on her and her shoe fly off her foot?"

Maggie slouched down in her seat.

We drove around to look for the shoe, but Skyway is a busy road-- lots of people want to get in and out of Paradise. And so the fip-fop has been sucked into the canyon. We are litter-ers.

Nikki is shoe-less and sleeping with her lone flip flop.

And I got a lesson in parental listening. Nikki may be a pincher but she is a greedy pincher, so don't assume the worst.

Maggie might be pinched but she is a 7-year-old pinched kid with time to plan her revenge-- or maybe not. I don't know if I'll ever know what transpired in the back of this car, and at this point, I'm not asking questions.

No I haven't died or fallen off the face of the Earth

No my dear readers you won't have to look for my face on "Without a Trace." I am indeed alive and reasonably well-- though a little confused.

You see a couple of weeks ago, I was given the task of doing the purse Meme, a delightful Meme requiring me to share the ever impressive contents of my purse. Easy. Easy. Easy-- until I got to the "post a photo part" because well my camera happens to be the only thing resting in peace in this household.

But I wanted to be a good blogger. Hell, I wanted to be a "professional blogger." I wanted to be able to blog eight hours a day, five days a week and look like I know what I'm doing. Oh the dreams-- pretty blogger template with pictures and stories updated daily. I could sell T-shirts and give out advice on the side. Of course there would be a book deal and later a blogger talk show where I'd interview Super Mommy, Babaloo and the entire cast of "As the Stomach Turns." Fantasies-- they're only good between midnight and 3 a.m.

Oh pickles I needed that camera. The camera was holding me back. And those people making all that noise-- darnit they had to go. Must they always hit each other? Do their feet really have to be that noisy? I mean is it necessary for me to hear each and every footstep.

AND-- they are always hungry, and they think I should feed them dinner when I'm trying to get my camera to fulfill my dreams. Jimmney Cricket! What am I the maid?

No, I'm the Mom and survey says "One day guilt will take over and I'll remember I'm the Mom and kids have been eating popcorn for the last two days." (CPS: this was an exaggeration. They had cereal-- I think).

OK so one day I woke up and realized the laundry pile had crept down the hall and the refrigerator was having friends over for dinner. If I didn't do something soon, the mold would sprout legs and the frig would take to walking.

But did I do anything. No, I was too stressed so did what I do when things get too stressful--I read blog after blog. Then I realized it was quiet. Now those of you who have children know the sure sign that evil is upon us is a quiet house. It all boils down to one simple equation (silence+ 3kids + shaving cream - razor blades + black cat * brand new tube of expensive mascara / new carpeting (absent father = blogging mother)= three children that look like a the stay puffed marshmallow family with black splotches on their faces and an angry white cat)

Later taht evening, I thought I'd take a bath. Usually the sound of running water is the homing device for my three kids, the cat and the telephone because everyone knows all motherly baths require an audience. Plus, important phone calls only come when you are chin high in bubbles.

But the kids never came. This was weird. I began to worry. Then I heard the screaming. My 2-year-old was wandering through the house. Her arms stretched out like Frankenstein and her lip quivering like the little baby she is.

And so with only bubbles for a dress, I went to her.

"What's the matter, Nik-a-bok?"
"I-I-I can't find you," she said. "You not in the cu-ter room. You not there. Com-com-com- fu-ter you not there."
"I was in the bath," I said.
"I don't like you cu-ter," she said. "I wan chew. I-I-I wan chew-pease. pease Mommy. pease."

And so for the last 12 days, I've forgotten about the camera and decided to go through detox. She has gotten me to herself. We've lost a pink flip flip, visited museums, built a bird house, made lots of brownies and played maid (my version of child labor). It hasn't been easy. My hands have itched with the need to find out what is going on in your worlds.

But I forced myself to take this short break because let's face it blogging is an addiction. I love to read about other people's lives and to connect and to get to "talk" to adults. My husband has been gone for more than a month. I've been stressing big time over Spanish, and I've been working. For me blogging was an escape from all the pressure. Darnit but I do love it.

And so I just took a break. Those of you who have followed this blog for a while know this is a frequent habit. I'm a sucker for guilt. But it is the guilt that keeps me grounded-- and from falling off the Earth. Come back Thursday when I tell the tale of the missing flip-flop.

Memefied again-- this time my purse is an open book

It is said you can tell a lot by a woman by the contents of her purse, which is why for years I didn't carry a purse or if I did it was the size of a ziplock sandwich bag and only contained my driver's license and a wad of crumpled dollar bills.

Kids change everything. Now I must carry a purse. I can't just hand my husband my driver's license so it's available on the off chance a waiter wants to card a 33-year-old woman. No I have to be prepared.

Six months ago, my purse looked like a piece of carry-on luggage, but now that my youngest is nearly potty trained (or so I dream-- my purse thinks she is, but my trunk says otherwise) I have gone back to carrying a small purse-- and today you will learn the contents of said purse because Super mommy (Sandy) tagged me. I'd link you, but I don't know how to. She'll probably comment, so click on her profile and visit her site. It's super funny.

Now about that purse.

This purse's sole duty is to carry receipts-- lots of them. I have 23 at present-- 15 long grocery receipts, two for shoes, three back to school variety, one for a Jacuzzi suite at the Oxford Suites (left over from my anniversary nearly a month ago), one for a oh- my- gosh- I- forgot- it- was- today- birthday present and one from the Dollar Store because I refuse to spend $8 for a gift bag. Why do I keep said receipts? Because I worked retail when I was in my early 20s so I know how important receipts are. Besides you never know when you might need to return a box of Captain Crunch.

The receipts serve another purpose-- to smother all items necessary to procure additional goods (my driver's license, credit card, bank card and on occasion checkbook).

This is my budgetary rational. If I can't find the cards, I can't spend the money or at least I have to think it over as I spill the contents of my purse (including all those receipts) onto the department store counter so I can find my bent-by-a-kid bank card and buy a new pair of shoes.

I rarely carry cash. I have 67 cents in my purse today (36 of which are pennies).

What else might you find? You won't find a pen or if you do it won't work. You might find a pencil or a crayon though because those seem to be easier to find in my house. Chances are the pencil lead is broken and the crayon is partially melted.

You'll find my fishing license because should I get stranded I don't want Fish and Game to fine me for feeding myself without the proper documents in place.

Now who to tag? Hmm? Kigo gal, Karmyn and Social Worker Frustrated Mom- have at it.
And finally I have a pink comb, two kid hair bobs and an old dried out wiper for emergency kid cleaning.

Come back tomorrow when I complete the Meme and actually post a photo. I have to work out the logistics as my camera battery is still not charged, and if I use a film camera, you'll have to return in 10 years see the picture-- because that's when I'll finally get around to developing the film

Images trapped in an ashy grave

For me it was a shoe- a brown woman’s flat with creases across the toe. On a pile of twisted steel and ash, surrounded by computer paper and smoke blowing in the breeze, it lay cast aside and missing its mate. The shoe was real-- the rest: too horrific for comprehension.

I’d never been to New York, and I’d never met her people. Her subways and fancy buildings were the things of movies. But the shoe I knew the shoe and the back of the firefighter’s helmets.

How many times had I searched the backs of helmets, looking for the familiar name “Sitter-- Co. 33,” my husband’s name? That day he was off fighting another fire. I knew he wasn’t there, but I still searched. It’s instinctive to read the helmets. There goes somebody’s son, somebody else’s husband and father into the tower. Good they’ll save those people. These men and women know no fear. I was so proud of them that day. These were the heroes who would make it all better.

What happened seemed incomprehensible.

The building fell. It wasn’t supposed to fall. In even the most terrifying nightmares there is still hope, but for the building to fall? Buildings don't fall and crush people. They don't. It couldn't be. The firefighters-- they were there. They were inside. The people-- all those people.

A scream-- what more could I do? I was just a helpless observer 3,00 miles away. It was helpless to tell them not to go, to stay out of the still standing, faltering tower. I knew no crumbling tower would deter them. They’d keep going because that is what they do-- their brothers and sisters were inside. It was personal.

Heroes possess this drive that makes them keep fighting. They store up their grief in little boxes and keep going-- how do they do it? What tears they couldn’t cry that day-- no time for tears or even a scream.

And I thought of all the grief-- so small compared to this-- that my own husband held deep within himself, managing to go on-- a 2-year-old who drowned in a septic tank, the truck full of teenagers whose truck flipped, mangled bodies for him to see, the couple who crashed on Humboldt Road. He was the first at scene that day, and he was so young -- 23? I think. The woman was begging him to help her husband, but he could do nothing. Grey matter was all over. The man was crushed, and my husband tried. He put on a show, but he knew he could do nothing, but for her he tried. He came home quiet. He does this once in a while. Never sharing what horrors he’d seen-- what people he couldn’t help.

And so I knew the firefighters would continue to run toward the burning crumbled building-- a desperate run toward what they knew would be their death. I knew they’d flood to the other one still standing but faltering. I knew because deep in their hearts there is so much hope, so much fight. They can save the day, right? They don’t crumble with the ashes. They don’t fall beside a discarded shoe of some unknown woman.

But they did.

And when they did, I imagined so many women searching the backs of the helmets-- only these woman weren’t hoping for a roadside wave or a glimpse of their loved one on TV. They were hoping for signs of life.

This was the day my children started sleeping with me-- though I really didn’t sleep for weeks because every time I closed my eyes I saw the shoe-- a woman’s shoe, comfortable and alone. I couldn’t see the towers or the helmets anymore. Those images were too painful. My mind couldn’t comprehend the Pentagon-- our nations first line of defense, the place that keeps us safe-- with a big hole burning. A field in Pennsylvania -- much too painful.

I could block all that out, but not the shoe. The shoe was personal, mundane and out of place in this surreal nightmare of planes flying into buildings, towers crumbling and twisted steel burning.

And so I slept with my Maggie-- though I didn’t really sleep. I tried not to shut my eyes because the shoe made it all real.




For other stories about September 11, please visit your fellow bloggers and share your memories. There is also a collection at www.bloggingchicks.blogspot.com.

Lost and Found?

I would rather have loved and lost
than to have lost my mind


trying to hold on to something I can't have.

Take the 30-day test drive

The other day I came across an ad informing me that I could try out a mattress for 30 days and if I wasn’t satisfied, I could return it for a full refund.

Now that is just disgusting. Who wants a used mattress?

Somewhere in this world there must be a warehouse peddling 30-day-old reject mattresses.

Are these what some places call reconditioned mattresses? Hmm? Kind of makes you think, huh? You may have gotten a bargain when you bought that pillow toped wonder, but did you bargain to be sleeping where Billy Ray and Norma slept?

Of course, if it was a previously owned celebrity mattress, maybe those of us who are say overly star struck would be tempted to take a roll in the hay. Could even be an asset.

Imagine this: Young Robby Cartwright has finally found what he hopes is his first love-- only Robby isn’t the smoothest tool in the tackle box.
So he goes up to Miss Emily Post and says, “You wanna sit on that? Britney Spears once owned it. Really. This is one special mattress.”

Miss Emily is not of the star struck variety and realizes the mattress is what it is-- full of nasty little germs (They all are. This in no way implies that Britney Spears has a germy mattress) and leaves immediately.

And so this ad got me thinking. If we can return mattresses, why can’t we have a 30-day trial on other things?

For instance, all cars run perfectly on the car lot. They are shiny and next to some of the cars I’ve seen around town, they are visions of the good life-- while on the lot anyway.

When my husband and I shopped for our most recently deceased car, he stepped onto the car lot and was immediately transferred to his pretend life. In his pretend life, we camp and own an RV, boat and a couple of quads. We need a sturdy SUV for hauling stuff. We’re haulers and campers and adventurers. He needs a tow strap, a V-8 and three rows of seats.

And we need a truck because we can haul stuff in that too. All the time. Hauling is our No.1 favorite activity. If my husband could own a dump truck, he’d have one so he could move our leaves and pine needles around all day.

Unfortunately, this is not our reality. I camp-- sometimes. Actually, I am camping at this very moment because I have 30 days to try out my tent before it’s too late to return it to K-Mart and I want to get every second in to make sure “it’s the one.”

Anyway, my husband bought me this enormous gas-guzzling Expedition and we never went on any expeditions-- until I convinced him to sell it.

Now if we’d had the 30-day money back guarantee, I could have used the 30 days to show him the errors of his ways (mainly the gas receipts).

Other things I think should come with guarantees are fresh flowers. Do you know how many times I’ve received flowers only to have them wrinkle up and die on me?
I say if the flowers turn brown before the week is up, send them back.

I can see where this could go wrong though.

Billy Ray takes Norma Jean out on a date and gives her this enormous bouquet of flowers. Norma is thrilled. How generous of her sweetie!

Then just as he goes in for a kiss goodnight (before telling her about his genuine pre-owned celebrity mattress), he says, “Now, Norma I need those flowers back. You liked them right, but they have to be back by noon tomorrow or they are going to charge my VISA card.”

Terrible, huh?

But you know, you really don’t need a 30-day guarantee on all things.

Be resourceful.

Do like my mother and I did one Valentines Day.

There we were standing in Rite Aide and looking at all the Valentines when I said, “Hey mom, if I were to send you a card, I’d send you this one.”

Now I am ashamed to say we call each other on our cell phones and read cards to each other just prior to the holidays.

And we have never been disappointed.


* previously published in the Paradise Post 8-12-06-- and here today because I'm too lazy to be creative at the moment.